The transition from the artisans' district to the Royal Quarter was marked by a gradual change in the very stone beneath our feet. The rough-hewn paving blocks of the craftsmen's streets gave way to precisely cut basalt slabs, fitted together so perfectly I couldn't slip a knife blade between them. The buildings here were broader, their foundations wider, as if the architects sought to demonstrate permanence through sheer mass.
Croft flew ahead in his usual pattern of short flights and long pauses, his black form stark against the pale stone. "The governance district," he called back to me, his voice carrying strangely in the quiet air. "Where the Aethelian ministers and officials would have worked."
I paused to examine one of the structures. Unlike the functional workshops we'd left behind, these buildings featured elaborate facades carved with what appeared to be legal codes and administrative records, the angular Aethelian script covering every available surface.
"They carved their laws in stone," I observed, running my fingers over the deeply incised letters. "Not just on tablets, but on the buildings themselves."
"A society that believed its rules would outlast the mountains," Croft replied from a nearby ledge. "They wanted their governance literally set in stone."
We spent the next hour moving through what seemed to be ministerial complexes—buildings with large assembly halls, smaller chambers that might have been offices, and courtyards that still showed the ghostly patterns of formal gardens in the arrangement of crumbling stone planters. In one vast hall, I found stone desks arranged in perfect rows, each with a carved depression that might have held ink pots and a larger space for scrolls that had long since turned to dust.
"The bureaucracy of an empire," I murmured, walking between the silent workstations. "All these people, doing... whatever it was that kept an empire functioning."
"Tax records, census data, trade agreements," Croft said, landing on one of the desks. "The mundane machinery that makes civilizations work. All gone now."
The pull in my chest grew stronger as we moved northward, leading us toward a massive wall that separated the ministerial district from what lay beyond. The wall was twenty feet high and made of the same black basalt as the rest of the city, but here the stone was polished to a mirror shine. A single archway broke the wall's expanse, sealed with bronze gates that showed no rust despite their obvious age.
"The royal enclosure," Croft said, studying the gates. "The palace complex would be through here."
The gates were locked, and no amount of pushing would move them. We followed the wall east for nearly half a mile before finding a section where a nearby tree had grown against the stones before dying and petrifying. Its stone branches formed a natural ladder to the top.
From the wall's height, I could see the full layout of the Royal Quarter. Directly ahead lay the palace proper—not a single building but a complex of interconnected structures surrounding courtyards and gardens. To the west stood what appeared to be barracks and training grounds, and to the east, smaller but more ornate buildings that might have been temples or the homes of important nobles.
But it was the palace itself that held my attention. Even in its silent, empty state, it projected an aura of power. The central keep rose five stories, its walls adorned with carvings that told the history of the Aethelian dynasty. Smaller buildings clustered around it like chicks around a mother hen, all connected by covered walkways and elevated passages.
We climbed down into a courtyard filled with the skeletal remains of ornamental trees, their stone trunks twisting toward the grey sky. The silence here was even deeper than in the rest of the city, as if the stones themselves remembered the weight of royalty and respected it even in death.
The main palace doors were sealed, but we found entry through a smaller portal that might have been used by servants. The interior was a maze of corridors and chambers, all empty yet somehow feeling more preserved than the buildings outside. In one room, I found a stone table still set with ceramic plates and cups, as if waiting for diners who would never return.
"The throne room should be in the central keep," Croft said, his voice hushed. "That's likely where we'll find what we're looking for."
It took us the better part of an hour to navigate the palace's winding passages. We passed through halls that might have been used for royal audiences, chambers that could have been council rooms, and galleries displaying the petrified remains of tapestries that crumbled at the slightest touch.
Then we found the throne room.
The doors were massive things of bronze and ebony, standing partially open as if the last person to leave hadn't bothered to close them. Beyond lay a cavernous space that took my breath away. Columns three feet thick marched toward a raised dais at the far end, where a massive throne sat empty beneath a domed ceiling. Stained crystal windows that might once have shown brilliant colors now let in only the same grey light as everywhere else.
And there, on the throne, sat a skeleton.
The bones were ivory-white, still clad in the tattered remnants of what must have been royal robes. The skeleton sat upright, one hand resting on each arm of the throne, as if holding court in death as it had in life. But it was the chest cavity that drew my eye—a clean, precise hole where the sternum and ribs should have been, the edges of the bone smooth and unbroken.
"The last king of Aethel," Croft said softly, landing on the throne's armrest. "He's been sitting here a long time."
On the skeleton's finger gleamed a simple black ring. It seemed to be made of some material that absorbed light rather than reflecting it, standing out starkly against the white bone.
"What is that?" I asked, approaching the throne slowly.
"I don't know," Croft admitted. "But it feels... important. Ancient."
The pull in my chest resonated with the ring's presence. When I carefully worked it off the skeleton's finger, the bones didn't crumble, but something in the air seemed to shift, as if a long-standing tension had been released.
The moment the ring was in my palm, I felt a connection—deep and intuitive. The black metal warmed against my skin, seeming to study me as much as I studied it.
"Now what?" I asked, slipping it onto my finger. It fit as if made for me.
"The pull continues," Croft reminded me. "The ichor is close."
We searched the throne room carefully, examining the walls for any sign of hidden passages. It was Croft who noticed it—a section of wall behind the throne where the carvings were different. Instead of the historical scenes that covered the rest of the chamber, this area showed tools and forges, the symbols of the God of Smithing.
When I pressed my ring-hand against the carving, something clicked deep within the stone. A section of the wall slid silently inward, then sideways, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
The air that flowed out was cold and carried the scent of old stone and something else—something metallic and ancient.
The chamber below was small and circular, its walls bare stone. In the center stood a simple stone pedestal, and floating above it was a single drop of black ichor, pulsing with a dark energy I recognized from my awakening.
This was it. The first piece.
I reached for the drop, my hand steady despite the anticipation coursing through me.
The moment my fingers touched the dark liquid, the now-familiar cold fire raced up my arm. But this time, there was something more—a vision, clear and vivid:
I am riding a creature that looks like a horse but is formed of shadow and smoke. Its hooves make no sound as they touch the ground of a twilight field. Grey flowers stretch to the horizon under a purple sky. There are no words in this memory, no conversations, just the steady rhythm of my mount's movement and the absolute knowledge of what I am—an angel of death. The understanding sits in my bones, as natural as breathing.
When the vision cleared, I was on my knees before the pedestal. The drop of ichor was gone, absorbed. The cold spark inside me had grown into a steady flame. I felt stronger, more real, and the name Cassian finally felt like it belonged to me.
As the new power settled through me, the ring on my finger shimmered. To my astonishment, it flowed like liquid darkness, reshaping itself into a simple, elegant dagger with a blade of pure black. The weapon felt like an extension of my own hand, perfectly balanced.
"It changed," I said, staring at the blade.
Croft looked as surprised as I felt. "It responds to what you're becoming."
I willed it to change back, and the metal flowed obediently into its ring form. Then, focusing again, I imagined a short sword, and the ring shifted, becoming exactly that.
"How do you know so much?" I asked Croft as we prepared to leave the chamber. "About Eden, the empires, the history? You just... know things."
Croft was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know how I know," he said finally. "The knowledge is just there, like remembering something I never learned. I know the names of kingdoms that fell millennia ago, the patterns of architecture I've never seen before... but I don't know where the knowledge comes from."
We ascended back to the throne room. The skeleton king watched us with empty sockets as we passed, a silent monarch in a dead kingdom. The black ring felt heavy on my finger, its nature still mysterious but its connection to my growing power undeniable.
The vision of riding through that twilight field lingered in my mind—the first real memory of what I had been. An angel of death. Now I had taken the first step toward reclaiming my identity, in a dead world where even my guide didn't understand the source of his own knowledge.